Yesterday I received an email from an organization for which I'm going to be a contributor, asking me to send them a new photo to accompany my bio. Since I had just told everyone during my Alt Summit session that it was time for me to update my 4-year-old about page photo anyway, this afternoon I grabbed my camera and my shutter remote, and grabbed a few shots.

I chose the one above because it looked the most natural -- you know, for a woman smiling like a goon at nothing in particular, while home alone with a remote shutter in her off-camera hand.

Incidentally, because I promised a few people that I would publish the slides from my talk, here they are. Let no one say I'm not a woman of my word: I may smile like a goon at nothing in particular, but my word, boy-howdy, is my bond.

I'm back from Atlanta, having spent a whirlwind weekend at the Mom 2.0 Summit. My heavens, what an amazing time. It had been almost 18 months since I had attended a blogging conference, and the Mom 2.0 Summit is just such a great one to return to: so many friends I've made through this crazy medium were there, and it was wonderful catching up with them all.

Some highlights:

Participating on the opening keynote panel on body confidence, sponsored by Dove. It was such an honour to be a part of this, especially since I've been a fan of Dove's Real Beauty campaign for many years (as I said to their director of marketing, I'm wearing their deodorant right now). The other impressive (and admittedly somewhat intimidating) panelists were so warm and so funny, the hour we spent up on that stage was incredibly fun. They were:

Moderating a panel on the evolution of blogging. This was really special: I had the pleasure of moderating a conversation among one of the most diverse group of really wise women I've ever had the pleasure of being in the company of. Get this: the panel consisted of a charity foundation CEO, a film critic, and beauty queen and a globetrotter. Amazing, right? And each of them was so very smart, funny and engaging, all I had to do is toss them a question and get out of their way, and they blew the room away with their generosity and charm and just plain smarts. It was incredibly fun. They were:

These four women write about everything under the sun, and so beautifully. Don't miss their work.

And finally, on Saturday night I was so honoured to receive the Iris Award for Best Photography. I was so overwhelmed, and I'm pretty sure I babbled something in gratitude into the microphone, but I honestly can barely remember anything I said in the haze of emotion I was experiencing at the time. So, now that I've calmed down, I'll say this: first and foremost, thank you so much, all of you who continue to visit me here and encourage me and support my work. It's really difficult to express how much your doing so has changed my life for the better, but it couldn't be more true that you have. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to the lovely people of Mom 2.0 Summit, because receiving that award last night was absolutely the highlight of my career. And finally, deep, deep, heartfelt thanks to my co-nominees in this category: the photographers listed below are truly phenomenal. Their talent, and their consistent commitment to excellence challenges me to strive to improve my photography with every shot I take.

On that note, friends, I'm exhausted! I think I'm going to take a couple of days off, to hug my family, scratch Rufus' ears, and contemplate how much my carrots grew in my three-day absence. But Mom 2.0 has given me renewed enthusiasm for my work, and I'll be back soon, raring to go.

1. Railroad tracks. Note: I love trains, and I love subways. I love sitting in big seats watching the world whiz on by. But train tracks? Not so much. They frighten the dickens out of me. In fact, taking that photograph above made me feel vaguely insane.

3. Peanut butter. I find this truly one of the nastiest foodstuffs of all time, and I can't explain why. I like peanuts, I love Thai peanut sauce. But peanut butter? Lord, no.

4. Feet. I'm sure your feet are lovely, but I'm sorry, I do not care for them. In fact, I am uncomfortable with the feet of anyone over, say, 3 years old. (Baby feet are, obviously, adorable.)

5. S'mores. I can only assume this is cultural (perhaps like peanut butter) -- I've never met anyone who spent any part of their childhood in America who didn't love the stuff. But I don't have much of a sweet tooth, and graham crackers-marshmallows-chocolate is just sweetness overload. I've tried many times -- I can't do it.

6. Chewing gum. This aversion came later in life -- I was a chewing/bubble gum fiend when I was a kid. But now? Chewing gum totally skeeves me out. I'll choose a breath mint every time.

7. The number 22. I don't know what it is about that number, but it makes me uncomfortable. I'm actually vaguely disturbed by all double numbers: 44, 88 -- but for some reason, 22 really gets under my skin.

8. Sweet mixed with savoury. I can't eat sweet-and-sour anything, I don't want honeyglazed ham, caramel in my popcorn, or sliced fruit in my vegetable salad. Sweet needs to stay with sweet, and salt needs to stay with salt. On this I am unreasonably firm.

So last year, when I was trying to figure out what I was going to do for myself for my birthday, I was toying with the idea of getting a tattoo. I don't have any tattoos, and it seemed like 45 was the perfect age to get one. Something small and tasteful, I thought. Something simple, like the words "look for the light" in small script on the inside of my left wrist.

I mentioned my plans to Alex.

"What? No." Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

I was shocked. "Wait, why? It'll be cute! Just a tiny one, right here!" I pointed to my wrist.

I am not in the habit of having my daughter put her foot down with me, so while the Trini part of me was itching to give her a good lesson on what happens when little girls disrespect their elders, the rest of me was thinking that surely she's not crazy enough to tell me she forbids something unless it's really, really important to her. So I reconsidered and decided against the tattoo.

Then a couple of months ago, toward the end of the school year, I was picking up Alex after school, and noticed she had the shape of the sun on the back of her hand. At first I thought she had taken a brown marker and drawn on herself, but then I realized what it was.

"Alex, is that henna on your hand?"

"Oh," she glanced at her hand. "Yeah. It's called a mehndi. We were learning about India today in school."

"Did someone come in and actually draw it on you?"

"Yes, one of the moms. She's from India. We all got one."

"Yeah, they do them in Trinidad, too. All the Hindu brides get them." And then suddenly, that's when I knew. "You, know, Alex, it's really beautiful. I think I'm going to get a really fancy one for my birthday this year." I narrowed my eyes. "I don't supposed I could get your permission to have one, could I?"

She grinned. "Of course you can. Mehndis aren't permanent. So yes, you may."

So, it was settled. As my birthday approached, I started Googling for henna tattoo artists in Houston. While I'd had small henna tattoos before, I knew that for this birthday, I wanted the real deal: someone who really knew what she was doing, a person to whom all the Indian brides who wanted henna tattoos in Houston would naturally turn for their big days.

And that's how I found Soniya.

Soniya is the owner and artist of The Original Henna Company, in the Heights area of Houston. Her space is located in a small bungalow, and when I entered I was surrounded by beautiful Indian art (some of them imported, some of them Soniya originals), jewelry and clothing. There was Indian music playing on the sound system, and and Soniya greeted me with a wide smile. She sat me down on a bench covered in Indian fabrics, and propped my left arm and elbow up with cushions.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Then let's get to work."

Using a tube that looked a lot like the one a cake decorator might use to ice a cake, Soniya began squeezing the henna out of the cone into really intricate designs on my arm. She worked quickly, and I watched, astounded, as detailed paisleys and flowers appeared with just a few seemingly simple strokes.

And as she worked, we talked. I learned that Soniya was a scientist in Houston's Medical Center before deciding to follow in her mother's and grandmother's footsteps and become a henna artist. Her work tends to be more contemporary, combining both Indian and Arab designs, while her mother's is more traditional.

And as we talked, she worked.

Not to get all woo-woo about it, but I'd like to go on record as saying there is something deeply nurturing about having someone make beautiful art on your skin (particularly when there are no needles -- or, you know, pain -- involved). Watching her quickly make the gorgeous petals and swirls was downright hypnotic.

The design continued to become more and more detailed, on both the front and back of my arm and hand.

I began to worry.

"You know, Soniya," I said, "I've gotten small henna designs before, and they never last more than a day or two."

"What? They should last 2 weeks!"

"I know, that's what they say, but they never do."

"Okay, don't worry, I have just the thing."

After she added the finishing touches to my fingers, she disappeared into a back room.

When she returned, she was stirring a small bowl with some liquid in it.

"What's that?"

"It's a mixture of sugar and lime juice," she answered, still stirring. "This will make sure that the henna stays on your arm as long as possible."

As the henna began drying and oxidizing into a dark black colour, she gently dabbed on the sugar/lime mixture on the design.

"Now," she continued. "Keep this on as long as possible -- for at least 5 hours or so. Then when you get home, scrape the henna off with a credit card, and slather on some Vicks."

"Yup. And no showering for at least 24 hours. Then you should be fine."

I thanked her profusely, paid her and drove home, one-handed.

Five hours later, the now-flaking henna was starting to itch a bit, and beginning to peel off. So I got my credit card (actually, my minister's card -- I knew that thing would come in handy), and began to scrape the henna off of my arm and hand, revealing the orange pattern underneath. Then, per Soniya's instructions, I slathered on Vicks. A lot of Vicks.

My arm looked beautiful, but I smelled like the flu.

The next day, however, the art had darkened, and it looked exactly as I'd hoped.

I've been taking really good care of it, and as of today, it still looks great. And honestly, I think I'm going to make a yearly habit of this. Aside from being very pretty and an exceedingly pleasant way to spend an hour, it's a wonderful birthday reminder to really enjoy the skin I was born in, you know?